A Night in Noir Hell
by The Illiterate Authors
Summary: Winston is confronted with a case that might shed light on his dark past, the only thing that stands between him and the answers he wants is...Apaertment 666. One-shot Anthro, inspired by Max Payne


A Night in Noir Hell

Hello readers! It has been a while since I wrote a one-shot and decided that with the release of Max Payne 3 approaching in the next two days, I couldn't contain my excitement. So here you are, a Alpha and Omega/ Max Payne flavored story that will keep you wanting to shoot dodge in bullet time until the very end. Please enjoy!

The office was small and heavily packed in, a thick layer of smoke hung lazily in what air was free to breath in the claustrophobic space. Winston sat in the tiny chair that was primarily put in every office, inhaling on the burning cigarette, exhaling a powerful breath of pure grey. He was tired, the dark circles under his eyes and his posture indicated that the paper work hadn't been too kind to him that evening. Putting down the pen, he let out a stifled sigh, "Another night of paperwork and another carton of smokes pushed aside like a cheap floosy, it felt like any other night, dark and depressing" .

He stood up and threw on his coat, turning the light in his office off, he walked down the dimly lit hall to submit his report and return home, a home left empty and forgotten. Pushing the worries of the night aside, Winston slumped into the robust leather interior of his car, basking in the last proud piece of work he had left in his pitiful life.

He drove down the normal way home, the long backstreet that led directly to his apartment. Over the radio a dispatch blurted out information on a local homicide, the suspects were under the influence of an unknown drug. Winston instantly answered the dispatch and turned his car around, this was his chance to pick up a dead trail, the one that led to the unsolved mysteries of his wife and young daughter.

Swerving on the icy road, he turned around and drove to the scene of the crime, his mind racing with his past in the spotlight. That one fateful day, the looks on their cold faces, the sleepiness of death and distress in their faded eyes, it all took center stage in the twilight theater that was Winston's mind. He slammed the breaks, his head was throbbing and it made him shaky. Stepping out of the car and recomposing himself, he took in little detail of the crime scene, already having that familiar feeling to it.

Some notable clues that seemed to stick out like a sore thumb were some unusual bullet casings and patterned blood markings scattered in the surrounding area. It seemed as though the victims were shot and then paraded around, before finally being used to paint the house red. The smell was awful, Winston gagged as the acrid smell of charred flesh and rotting corpses wafted over to him. It felt familiar all right, it was his best friend Alex Whoden's house. The family had been murdered and the house was supposed to be set ablaze, the perps seemed a little short handed in that department.

Whoever did it couldn't have been far, the markings painted so vividly with blood were still fresh. Winston was conflicted. The second case in years that could lead directly to the criminals that took his family's lives was in arms reach, all he had to do was reach out and grab it. Instead, he took it head on, rather than opting for the job to pursue this case, Winston pulled a smoke from his jacket, lit it, and dropped his badge.

The night seemed a bit more lively with the bleating sirens and screams of debauchery. The city was showing more and more color with each passing day. Criminals adapted to the ways that cops were chasing them, they were getting smart. Winston would have cared about all of this had he still been a detective, but going rogue would only get you years in prison, or a bullet straight to the head. That's what Winston wanted more than anything right now, a bullet to diminish all pain that the pounding headache would send at him. But he had a mission, more like a personal goal that would haunt him if he didn't tackle it now, yet he couldn't decide whether to care more, or less.

Feeling the rumble of city life under his feet, the roar of the subway trains, the patter of civilian feet, Winston was one with the city. Having made numerous deals with "officials" that had valuable information, Winston was left with only one destination, a small rundown apartment building on the lower east-side. Taking another sip of the whiskey, he shuddered and then stumbled forward, watching his uneven footing as he moved.

The apartment had the normal sort of scum. Junkies and low rep gang-bangers who didn't even have the pinch of sense to pull their heads out of their asses when trouble came knocking. This time it came full force, and Winston was the delivery guy, carrying a package labeled "Assholes" stamped and ready for a shotgun blast of full-blown, unadulterated destruction.

Winston walked with calm and clear composure. Approaching the guards, he asked clearly,

"Is this Los-bentos?"

"What is it to you motherfucker?" the black wolf replied.

"I have a package here for Mr. Asshole. You wouldn't happen to know him?", the guard looked puzzled.

"This some kinda trick grey paste? you trying to play some playa's?" he laughed.

Winston smiled, "I seemed to have found my assholes".

Winston grabbed the guards arm and snapped it clean in half. He yelped in pain and then keeled over, the bone protruding from the open wound, blood spilling over the pavement and into the storm drains. The other guard reached for his gun before having his brain splattered all over the wall like modern art. He tripped over himself before falling on a homeless wolf who just shrugged and went to sleep with the corpse keeping him warm.

Winston kicked the door in and ran up the first flight of stairs, already he could hear the sirens in the distance, his heart started to burn and his left arm went numb. A heart attack? Right now? Godammit, he thought, grabbing on to whatever could keep him upright. The rush of the kill and the pure adrenaline started becoming too much for Winston to handle. Pulling a small bottle that was concealed in his jacket, he popped open the top and consumed the pills.

Standard painkillers were easy to come buy on the black market, but you could get one hell of an addiction form them. Winston experienced this first hand, they went from a remedy for pain, to a bottle of tic tacs that went down smoother than water. Feeling a bit of the pain subside, Winston continued up the stairs to apartment sixty-six, floor six, the HQ of the creator of the famous designer drug "Z". Pulling his Colt M1911 from his holster, he kicked the door once before being blasted back.

The hall was in flames, smoke engulfed the corridor as Winston tried to pick himself up, his legs wobbling in an attempt to keep his footing. His ears were ringing terribly, the whizzing bullets only barely being heard. He rushed in, thugs running left and right, scrambling from the flames to reach safety. Winston quickly jumped through the air, firing at the fleeing thugs, watching half of them slump to the ground in unison.

The apartment was big, big enough to hold such an elusive operation, but as it lay empty, it felt even bigger. The ground was littered with rubble, bodies, and gore. The only other person besides Winston that reside within the apartment was a dark figure outlined by the moonlight that seeped through the skylight.

Stepping out of the shadows, Winston was astounded by the familiar face that revealed itself so subtly. It was Mikhail Maro, Winston's best childhood friend, still brandishing the same scar across his cheek that he wore so confidently as a child.

"I really didn't want you to figure out this way Winston. I understand how you feel about formal meetings so I made it a bit informal." he mocked.

"Mikhail, what in the hell is going on here? You slimy prick, we used to be friends! Was it you? Was it you who killed all those innocent people? All those lost souls? My family?" Winston roared.

Mikhail laughed, but it seemed different, as if being manipulated, demonic almost.

"You have no idea where you are do you? This is apartment 666, the home of the beast! So what if I killed that pitiful lump of shit you called a family, emotion makes a man weak, it slows us down, it burns us from the inside out. Not me, never shall i become attached to anyone again, and neither will you, tonight, you die Winston!" Maro cackled.

Winston instantly jumped backward and unloaded two clips into Mikhail, dropping to his knees in pain and pleasure, Mikhail pulled his own weapons on Winston, filling him full of holes. Winston dropped, feeling the blood drain from his chest onto the imported carpet, he pulled himself towards Mikhail who stood dumbfounded and laughing.

"You psychotic Fuck! *cough* Now we will both die, and for what reason, your whole empire lies in ruins and no matter what it will haunt you!" Winston yelled.

"Will it Winston? Will it haunt me? Or will it haunt you?" Mikhail laughed.

Winston felt his gaze going blurry, he pulled the trigger one more time, feeling the bullet leave the chamber, Winston fell on his side.

Mikhail was the newest addition to Winston's collection of dead friends and family, forcefully taken out of pure hatred for the wicked ways of a man who had become so corrupted that it could not be undone. With the last bit of energy he had left, Winston sat up against the wall, his fur and suit drenched in his blood, turning a putrid brown color as it aged. Pulling the small flask from his pocket and chugged the last of the whiskey. The painkillers started to wear off so he ate the rest, wanting to feel that familiar feeling of comfort warmth, the presence of something that made him happy. He was happy, in death...


End file.
